Not Today
Do you say “Happy Birthday” on a day like today? Is there anything happy left in it?
I remember holding you on the day you were born… 24 years ago… but just moments ago to me.
I went against the nurses directions and unwrapped you from all of those blankets as soon as the nurses left us alone. I counted your fingers and toes. I looked for any birthmarks… you had a strawberry on the back of your neck… you had it all your life.
I remember wondering how you could pack that much weight (9 pounds) into such a small package. I marveled at all of your hair. I remember thinking, “I’m sorry, son. It looks like you have your dad’s hair… lots of cow-licks.” You had those your whole life too. You hated them…
Just hours before I’d gone through hell to bring you into this world. I’d had an emergency C-section… military style (Terry was military, not me). This meant them not giving me my spinal medications correctly and feeling almost every incision.
I literally felt you being ripped from my womb. But I didn’t care, because now I could hold you. That was a happy birthday!!
And you were mine for 22 years. And worth every moment. The good and the bad, son.
Now you’ve been ripped from my life.
Today is just Corey’s Birthday.
There’s nothing happy about it. No. Not today.
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